A/N: Chuck does not belong to me. (please, I wish) Anyways, wrote this before 1x17 but after the 1X17 promo. You know the one.

Chuck was in no mood to be pestered, but of course Dan Humphrey arrived to ruin that. And he of course asked several obnoxious, stalker-like questions about Serena. Chuck stared at Dan angrily. Apparently he seemed to be losing some clout, however, because instead of apologizing and walking out of the room, Dan tried again.

"Her bed hasn't been slept in," he remarked. Chuck narrowed his eyes. GO AWAY, he beamed at Dan telepathically. It didn't work.

"Well, I knew housekeeping was hiring," Chuck replied, "But I had no idea their standards were so low." Dan smiled.

"I hate that I have to ask you this, but have you seen Serena," he asked. Chuck raised an eyebrow. As if Dan hadn't already asked this question about seven times.

"Oh, I've seen lots of Serena," Chuck said, jumping on the opportunity to both exercise his overactive imagination and annoy Dan at the same time, and just as he was about to go into detail, his phone rang. Chuck pulled it out, but stopped as he saw who was calling—Blair! His stomach dropped. Blair, who hadn't looked at, or spoken to him for four whole weeks. Four long, excruciatingly painful weeks. Chuck remembered the last time Blair called him, though he doubted she would…

Blair sighed and re-adjusted her bright yellow ribbon headband for probably the seventy-sixth time that afternoon. She sat on the stool in front of her vanity, impeccably dressed and primped: red tights, checkered blue shorts, Dior lip gloss. Whirling around, she checked her phone half-heartedly for text messages or missed calls. There were none. She sighed again, more audibly. This spring break was turning out to be Such. A. Drag. Where was Serena, who had promised to be there for her? Honestly, she should have just gone to Europe. Blair angrily yanked off her headband and fell down upon her immaculately made bed.

"Dorota!" she called, "Where are you?" Blair heard rustling from down the hall as Dorota bustled around, dusting.

"I am coming, Miss Blair!" Blair stood up quickly, the blood rushing to her head. She ignored the sensation and stuffed the ribbon headband back onto her messy bun. Again. She walked towards the sound of Dorota's voice, wandering through the rooms until she finally found the trademark tight bun and heels that were her live-in.

"Dorota," she whined, drawing out the word, "If I have to spend one more night watching Trading Spaces re-runs, I am probably going to do something drastic." Dorota paused in her curtain-dusting. She turned around to Blair, hiding a smile.

"So, are you hungry, Miss Blair?" She asked, "Would you like me to make you a sandwich, yes?" Blair rolled her eyes in indignation.

"I'm serious! I need to go out! Be young! Be free! Be tr—"

"I will have none of this, Miss Blair," Dorota interrupted. "Come with me, we will go to the kitchen and cook something, okay? Okay." Dorota stepped down from the stool she was using to clean the curtains and walked out of the room without another word. Blair stomped her foot angrily, but followed her. When she arrived in the kitchen, Dorota had a large blender in the middle of the counter and was putting all sorts of tropical fruit, yogurt, and juice into the glass center of it.

"What are you doing, exactly?" Blair demanded angrily. Dorota glanced up at her, but did not instantly respond. She snapped the top onto the blender and whirred it up, drowning out 

any possibility of listening to Blair's shrill voice. The previously separate solids smashed together until they consisted of nothing but a uniform, orange, sloshing liquid. Blair pressed her lips together. Not unlike my life, she thought angrily. Dorota grabbed two tall glasses from a cabinet and expertly poured the smoothies into them. "What is this supposed to be?" Blair demanded again. Dorota smiled.

"Well, Miss Blair, everyone likes smoothies. And since you are in such a foul mood this afternoon, I thought you would like one." Blair opened her mouth to complain, but Dorota quickly continued, "I used the low fat yogurt. You must drink." Blair narrowed her eyes, but gingerly picked up the cocktail glass anyways. She dipped a pinky finger into the liquid, tasting the fruity concoction. A bell sounded off in the distance, and Dorota smoothed her skirt. "Drink up!" she insisted, "I will be back in one moment, okay?" and hurried off to tend to Eleanor.

Blair rolled her eyes. A smoothie was not what she needed. Dorota didn't know anything. What she needed was for Hazel or Is or Penelope to call her, begging for forgiveness. She needed Serena to stop screwing Brooklyn long enough to spend some time with her. She needed Chuck to st— Blair paused. She needed Chuck? What was she thinking? What she needed was Nate, not Chuck. Perfect, mellow, unbelievably sexy Nate. Blair made a face. What she needed was to party. Blair quickly eyed the doorway to make sure that Dorota was actually gone, then bent down underneath the island counter- reaching behind the flour and Crisco until she felt the cool, smooth glass bottle she was looking for. Aha! Blair carefully pulled the bottle out from where she had hidden it so many years ago, and poured what could conservatively be called an extremely generous splash of Bacardi into her smoothie. She grinned wickedly, stirring the frozen drink with her straw, and tasted it. It burned a little going down her throat. Perfect. Blair returned her bottle of liquor just as Dorota rounded the corner back into the kitchen.

"Are you getting anything in particular, Miss Blair?" she asked. Blair stood up, too quickly.

"No," she lied easily, "I was just looking for an earring I dropped." Dorota eyed her suspiciously.

"Okay, Miss Blair," she said, and reached for a smoothie. Blair realized what she was doing just as Dorota brought the spiked glass to her lips.

"No!" she cried. Dorota looked up in alarm. "I mean," Blair bit her lip, "Don't drink that particular one, please. I've already sipped from it. And I'm ill. Really. Just… that one's mine." Dorota raised a skeptical eyebrow, but replaced the glass, picking up the other smoothie.

"Okay, then." She said. Blair grabbed her Bacardi smoothie protectively, and cast about for a quick change of subject. Her eyes landed upon the bright yellow box Dorota had carried into the room and placed next to the blender.

"What is that, Dorota?" she demanded. Dorota smiled.

"It's a game for you," she said, "I asked your mother, and she said that I could stop cleaning tonight to cheer you up. We are going to play, and it used to be your favorite." Blair stepped closer to the box

"Connect Four?!" she asked, "You think that connect four will cheer me up?"

Dorota's smile dropped.

"Well either this, Miss Blair, or you can go back upstairs and stare at your cell phone waiting for that boy to call you. Mister Chuck, I believe." Blair blanched. She was not waiting for Chuck. She was not!

"Nate," she informed Dorota, "His name is Nate." Dorota nodded knowingly.

"Whatever you say, Miss," she said. "Come on, let us play." She grabbed the Connect Four box in one hand, and Blair's hand with the other, leading her through to the living room, where she placed the game upon the low table. Blair resignedly took a gigantic sip from her smoothie, making a face. There, she thought, better already.

Sixty-three minutes later, Blair was starting to seriously feel the effects of her orange drink. There seemed to be about three of Dorota, and she kept missing the board when trying to drop her chips into the Connect Four bank.

"Are you okay, Miss Blair," Dorota asked concernedly. "You have lost seventeen out of the twenty games we play, and I let you win two. Something is wrong." Blair giggled obnoxiously, and waved her hand in Dorota's general vicinity.

"Nothing is wrong, Dorrrrrrrota," she slurred. "I am just fine and not wrong with anything." Dorota frowned and continued to stare at Blair. "Seriously! I am A-okay. I am not losing this game and I am also not sick. Siiicccckkkk. That is. A funny word." Dorota reached over to feel Blair's forehead, but crinkled her nostrils when she got close.

"Miss Blair, you smell like something else," she said, peering at her carefully.

"I am not drunk." Blair said. "I got a drink spilled on me earlier." Dorota raised an eyebrow.

"Nice try, Miss, but you have been with me this entire time. You have been at no parties to get drinks spilled, and I want to know what has been going on this very instant." Blair shrugged as she tried to rack her befuddled brain for a decent excuse. Dorota was smart, that was for sure. The drink thing had always worked on her mom, although, in retrospect, her mom was usually also fully buzzed at the time as well. What would Chuck do in a time like this? Blair inwardly gasped. Chuck again? What was wrong with her tonight?

"Blair." Dorota's tone was firm, angry. "I am waiting." All of a sudden, Blair simply couldn't take it any longer. She collapsed into tears.

"I'm sorry, Dorota," she sobbed. "I just… I miss my friends. I miss my life. I miss…" Blair trailed off. Chuck, she silently admitted to herself. It was the first time Blair had ever considered missing Chuck as a possibility. The effect was oddly sobering. Dorota continued to regard Blair.

"And all you have done is drink this liquor?" Dorota asked, her tone still hard. Blair continued to cry.

"Yes. I hate my life," she whined, in between tears.

"Okay," Dorota said, "We are done here. You, get up." Blair stumbled to her feet, wiping her face with the side of her Marc Jacobs tunic. "We are going upstairs. And you are going to Club Bed." Blair allowed herself to be led by an angry, maternal Dorota. She couldn't think straight, and she mostly just wanted to pass out. Dorota yanked Blair into her striped silk pj's and forced her to down three glasses of Pellegrino. Blair lay in bed silently, her drunken stupor returning. As soon as Dorota turned off her lights with a final slam of Blair's bedroom door, she noticed a blue LCD light glowing across the room. Curious as to what could be making that blinding light, Blair rolled out of bed, tripping onto the floor, and picked up the foreign object—her cell phone! The bright, hypnotic light seemed to advise an epiphany. Blair suddenly seemed to have a mission in life- calling Chuck. Not even scrolling through her address book for his name- after all, she knew his number by heart- Blair punched in the familiar digits, conveniently forgetting that they weren't on speaking terms. He picked up on the first ring. She giggled.

"Blair?" Chuck asked, drawling into the phone, "I thought I told you not to speak to me again." Her stomach dropped. Oh, yeah. That conversation. The Arabians. Etc. it was all coming back to her now. Oh, well.

"I…I…" she stammered. "I guess I miss you." Chuck's voice sounded distant and appealing. Comforting, even.

"Are you drunk or something?" he asked. "It's like, six-thirty." This news shocked Blair.

"In the morning?" she asked, confused, "But then why is it so dark?"

"No, in the afternoon. Blair, where are you?" Chuck sounded more urgent, concerned. Blair giggled again.

"I'm in bed," she explained, then added, "And I'm thinking of you." There was no reply for awhile. Then, strained, Chuck's voice came through.

"Blair," he said, "I really don't have time for this. You're clearly inebriated, and I have things to do. How about you just… I don't know." Blair could hear Chuck sighing onto the phone. Suddenly she was very, very tired.

"But I miss you," she whispered, sleepily. Chuck didn't respond for a long time, but she knew he didn't hang up either. She could hear his breathing, and it made her even drowsier. Club Bed was warm. Blair grabbed a chocolate off of the box on her dresser. She chewed it contentedly. "Will you come shopping with me tomorrow?" she asked, and then giggled again. "We can buy you a new scarf!" Finally, Chuck spoke.

"Look," he said, "You are not going to even remember this conversation, and --"

"Yes, I will," Blair insisted.

"Okay," Chuck said, "Then if you remember this, and you don't want to kill yourself thinking about it, which I most severely doubt, you can call me again tomorrow, and I will remind you exactly how needy you sound. Which in turn will make you want to kill yourself. So I don't think I can exactly agree to a Sunday outing with you, Blair."

"Don't let me kill myself," Blair said.

"I won't," Chuck promised, and Blair could feel his smile through the phone.

Chuck picked up his ringing phone. Dan tried to edge in close, in case his precious Serena was the one calling.

"Are you drunk dialing again?" he asked, painfully aware of the fact that Blair almost certainly didn't recall their last contact.

A/N: The more you review, the more likely Chuck & Blair are to have hot babies!